


enter

by Halflife



Series: enter & exit [1]
Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Talentswap (Dangan Ronpa), Hotel Kumanami | Hotel Kumasutra, M/M, Misgendering, Ouma not Oma, Pregnancy Scares, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22258630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halflife/pseuds/Halflife
Summary: Kokichi Ouma, the Ultimate Detective, is curious by nature. His interest in the Ultimate Supreme Leader, his peer and somewhat dubious crush, provokes him into entering Hotel Kumasutra.Things soon go astray.
Relationships: Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Series: enter & exit [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632910
Comments: 16
Kudos: 102





	enter

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. ᴛᴀʟᴇɴᴛsᴡᴀᴘ ᴀᴜ. sᴜʙᴛᴇxᴛ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛɪᴇs ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ sʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴛᴄʜ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴏғ ɢᴏᴅ. 
> 
> 2\. sᴀɪʜᴀʀᴀ's ғᴀɴᴛᴀsʏ ɪs ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ - ᴀ ғᴀɴᴛᴀsʏ. ᴛʜɪs ɪs ɴᴏᴛ sᴜᴘᴘᴏsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ 100% ɪɴ-ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ.
> 
> 3\. ғɪɴᴀʟʟʏ - ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜɪs ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴜɴᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɴᴏɴᴄᴏɴsᴇɴsᴜᴀʟ sᴇx.

[ _Every time I come here, I play the role of their "ideal." Like some shared fantasy._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yWq8Ry2lXl8)

[ _Saihara's fantasy... what could an untrustworthy guy like him desire?_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yWq8Ry2lXl8)

— 

Lo and behold, Saihara stands besides the gaudy bed. As usual, his expression is indescribable. Even in his private fantasy, he wears his ‘emperor’ costume; the dark colors clashes heavily with the vibrantly eye-searing orange-pink surroundings. Yet, upon Kokichi's lackluster entry, they don't exchange greetings. Instead, Saihara begins to discard some clothing, starting with his hat.

Kokichi feels the tension seep from his shoulders. “Casual, are we?”

“Hm?” Saihara's face morphs into one of surprise. “No, just getting started. Why, are you... having second thoughts?”

— shit. That's what he gets for letting his guard down. None of the previous make-believe scenarios skewed so abruptly, especially not so quickly. Saihara must have a really set script for his, huh. 

If Kokichi's straying off the written narrative so early on - maybe playing tricks and mindgames isn't in his favor. For once. 

“No,” he echoes, mimicking Saihara’s monotone enunciation. “Merely an observation.” 

Saihara quirks a single eyebrow. “Are those deductions preventing you from getting undressed?”

 _Shit shit shit what what oh wow, Iruma's right, Saihara totally_ is _a filthy pig underneath the soyboy act. Where did all of this confidence come from?! Come on, that has to be a part of his ultimate wish, right? He's a sniveling, derailing coward in the class trials!_

“I-”

He sighs. Kokichi immediately withers, internally preparing himself for the worst.

Like, waking up in bed alone and in immense pain. Or for the pretend Saihara to yell at him within the confines of the love hotel. Kokichi’s gut is in knots, worried and clenching within themselves. _This is unknown territory. Why aren’t you playing it safe?_

Saihara takes the lead, shockingly. “You know, you can be honest with me. I completely understand if you're nervous.”

“...sorry," he relents, resisting the urge to bite his tongue into twine. Seriously, an apology from him; Saihara's fortunate that this is a dream he won't remember. “Doing this is different from discussing it, I guess.”

“Oh, so it really is as I thought.” Yet, despite Kokichi clearly going against whatever fantasy Saihara has in mind - there's no rejection, just Saihara tilting his head, and patting down the cotton sheets of the bed. “But, it would be pretty unusual if you were totally calm. I'd worry you were doing it just to make me happy...”

“Huh?”

"Because, well, what I really want is for you to want to be mine. If you're pretending, then I won't be satisfied at all."

The words make an unexpectedly pleasant shiver roll down his spine. Kokichi's innermost nature, his detective and prying instincts, scream at him to explore that aspect further. Questioning that Shuichi doesn't want a partner, or a person, or anyone who does things solely for his benefit. But this sit-down psychological chat he's been invited to isn't oozing sexuality, while there's a faint red dust of blood on Saihara's cheeks.

— furthermore; his keen eye missed it, initially, but after Saihara removed his hat he begun to unbutton his blazer. Sooo...

He sits beside Saihara, close and far enough as he’s treading the careful delicate space between their bodies. Quietly, an agreement. “I understand, Saihara-chan.”

“Ah, that's - good, then. I'm really glad you didn't change your mind. Even if this is pretty unexpected from you, Ouma-kun...”

Kokichi blinks.

Once. Twice. Unsure, Saihara blinks back. Saihara leans his head forward, clearly questioning. 

“…did Saihara-chan just call me by name?”

“Uhm, yes?” Despite his disbelieving smile, Saihara laughs to himself. A sound that’s high-pitched, easy-going. It’s keenly different from the shy, lackluster chuckles outside of his wish fulfillment dream.

“Now I get it,” he continues, the laugh still ringing. “That’s why you’re scared? Ouma-kun, the organization isn’t one of those cruel fictitious types. You’ll still be you. We don’t believe in renaming our members, or anything like that. You’ll stay Ouma-kun, but you’ll belong to me.”

Compared to his peers’ desires, this one is rather tame and run-of-the-mill. Belonging, claiming, owning, yet in a manner that is wordlessly mindful. Numerous trips to Hotel Kumasutra have displayed some of the best and worst of human indecencies - some dreams being simple like a hug, others to one-sided obsession and dubiously dangerous bondage and branding. 

Saihara’s is the middle ground. Lusting over a particular individual, Kokichi Ouma himself, with a simple concept of ownership. As to be expected from a Supreme Leader - _of evil,_ his mind supplies, but Kokichi immediately suppresses that thought.

Rather than voice all that, Kokichi grins. “If it’s you, then it’s okay.” Whether or not he’s speaking the truth goes unsaid; perhaps Saihara can feel it, the trembling pitter-patter of his loud heart. 

He’s smiling. Still. “Hmn. All of a sudden, Ouma-kun’s being weirdly cooperative.”

“Whaaaat? So I got a bit anxious on entry. Does Saihara-chan need enthusiastic consent to get his jollies?” 

“That’s… quite alright…”

“Do my ears deceive me? I think I heard a l-i-e,” and Kokichi punctuates every letter with a fingertip upon Saihara’s fluttering ribcage. “Dishonest behavior to a cop is disobedience, Saihara-chan!” 

He rolls his eyes, clearly fond. “You’re not a cop, though… I don’t think Ouma-kun even qualifies as an assistant to a forensic scientist.” 

Kokichi sniffs. Exaggeratedly, following with a whimper and all. However, his false whine transforms into a real gasp, once Saihara begins to unfasten his checkered scarf. “Ah- wait-” 

Hot air coils around his ear. When did Saihara lean in? “I’ve waited long enough.”

“Oh- impatient, I see- then I’ll catch up,” although Saihara evidently has the upper hand. Somehow, he knows perfectly well what he’s doing, making quick work of Kokichi’s uniform. Whether from elation or leftover anxiety, Kokichi’s hands tremble, rendering unclothing Saihara an annoyance. “Mm…” 

A brief argument; Saihara says that, _I can remove my own clothing, Ouma-kun_ , and Kokichi responds with his typical stubbornness. _No, I've got it, I'm gonna be your newest and bestest subordinate, right, I better get used to this!_

It was intended to be a joke; the landing doesn't quite stick, as Saihara doesn't refute it. 

In between their bashfully heated words and a couple of accidental headbutts, the latter largely due to Kokichi's overeager attitude and slightly thanks to Saihara's inability to read the room, Kokichi discovers that Saihara is a sloppy kisser. Not a bad one - simply messy, apparently the fault of his mouth constantly flowing with drool.

Rather innocently, Kokichi points this out, like Saihara couldn't possibly have known himself. What's even more unexpected is that it's an insecurity of Saihara's.

Admittedly, his behavior doing a total one-eighty from a cool, collected leader and into a demure, shy teenager is _suuuuper_ adorbs, but Saihara's expression is bordering on genuine upset. So, Kokichi quietly files that away in a mental folder of things to ignore, and he recedes.

“Better than dry,” he comments.

“…something tells me that wasn’t your primary response, Ouma-kun.”

Obnoxiously sing-songy, Kokichi chirps, “Shall we skip to the main event?” 

This, in particular, is going to be the area of diversion. Whether or not Saihara’s cotton-candy dream shatters into a million pieces rests primarily on his reaction to Kokichi’s body. A body that isn’t - disfigured, or marred, or hideously dismembered in any fashion, regardless of what both body dysmorphia and body dysphoria tell him - just that he has a body that is unexpected. 

His jacket and his shirt have long since been unbuttoned and discarded to the floor; only his undershirt and flimsy sports bra remain to hide his chest. If the lighting was any sharper, the material of his bra would peek through. 

By some grace, Kokichi convinces Saihara that his shaky reactions upon further undressing are sensual. He says, “This is hot, right?” Pretending that he’s participating in a b-star porno does little to ease the tension, but the atmosphere settles kindly. 

Removing his undershirt, even as he’s planting wet kisses on Kokichi’s cheek, doesn’t take Saihara long. Saihara is initially so absorbed taking it off, he misses how it catches on the bra; nonetheless, it’s undeniable when Saihara faces his chest. 

What follows is a painfully pregnant pause. 

Saihara’s illusion doesn’t end, no, but Kokichi can feel the oblong corners of the dream begin to press inward. A thin paper starting to crinkle.

Everything starts to smell like smoke. 

“…Saihara-chan?” 

“Ah, uhm.” He stammers, sitting himself upright. Visually, there’s no displeasure or discomfort… from what Kokichi can discern on surface-level. Startling Saihara isn’t necessarily bad, anyone would have this reaction, but if it transfigures into disgust… “Is- is all of Ouma-kun’s body like this?”

Kokichi’s mouth thins. “By _like this_ , you mean a girl’s body, right?” 

“No! No, Ouma-kun! I didn’t mean it like that.” Saihara’s hands keep moving, side to side. Evidently, Saihara is a dieheard deviant, but he hadn’t accounted for this scenario whatsoever. And even though he's way out of his depth, Saihara's attempting to be respectful of this new and unusual boundary.

Cute.

Kinda hot, to be honest.

“I didn’t disappoint my Saihara-chan, did I…?” Speaking of unknown territory, being anything remotely dominant is very out of left-field for Kokichi. Setting himself on Saihara’s lap certainly is more of a ‘top’ movement. Only a top in times of desperation...

He forcibly swallows down the strange prickling in his throat, and plasters onto his face, the best slicer grin he can muster. Leaving the concern of 'does Ouma-kun have a pussy' voluntarily unanswered, Kokichi lightly taps Saihara's trembling lip.

“Sorry about that. But if it helps, y’know, you don’t just have to look.”

“W-well, I didn’t plan on stopping anyway.” 

Kokichi's face does - an emote. Of sorts. Simply, he can't exactly see himself, so he can't describe it as 'my eyes widened' or 'bugged out,' or whatever. Given Saihara's laugh-out-loud reaction, Kokichi's expression must've done something funny. 

That's all the encouragement Saihara requires, at least. His rather plain bra remains fastened, while Saihara begins to divert his attention elsewhere. Specifically, his hands rest on Kokichi's narrow thighs. The two exchange a small _look_ , a quick nonverbal question and answer; satisfied, Saihara spreads Kokichi's legs. 

Whether or not he's wet isn't exactly obvious from Saihara's point of view. Experiencing it is another matter entirely. Ever since Kokichi was old enough to buy his own needs and wants, he's worn briefs, so naturally his undergarments aren't extremely clingy. Now, though, his arousal is so deep and dripping, the fabric is nearly suffocating his skin. 

“Take it off,” he murmurs, among other encouragements. “Take it all off me.”

“Yeah, Ouma-kun… of course.”

Eventually, there is an awkward stalemate. Personally speaking, Kokichi has been stripped of everything sans undergarments.

Whereas Saihara's own cape, jacket, and dress shirt - _so many layers, god, Saihara-chan,_ had definitely come up as a retort in the throes of their unclothing - are removed, but he's still wearing his own wifebeater, briefs, and pants.

If the narrative of the fantasy concludes with... the beast of two backs, then more articles of clothing need to be discarded. Kokichi clears his throat. 

“May I?” Only Kokichi Ouma can manage to make two words come out so stilted. Saihara’s smug little ‘sure’ is going to get him in trouble later, even if the awake Saihara will have zero recollection of this mistake.

Their skirmish results in their positions flipped. A play fight. Akin to rough-housing, given that once or twice Kokichi may have jokingly kicked at Saihara, and Saihara had the audacity - the sheer nerve, stooping low enough to blow raspberries on Kokichi to keep him squirming. 

All that remains is Saihara's trousers and briefs. He isn't nearly brave enough to look Saihara in the eye. 

He is taking a moment to admire them abs, though. The muscles are barely present, their outline soft. Which, in his very humble opinion, is better than being totally ripped. For someone as lean as Saihara, having a full six-pack would be strange and kinda gross. 

Sadly, Saihara interrupts Kokichi's blissful intake. “Uh, does someone like what they see?”

“Truthfully? I’m trying to come up with something corny but coming up blank.”

“Ouma-kun's unable to joke? That's a first.”

“Yep yep! It's all your fault, Saihara-chan. You better take responsibility!”

“Like... this?” Saihara's fingers curl within the waistband of Kokichi's briefs, and - 

Off they go. Kokichi knows this for sure - he doesn't make a sound. There is a less-than-zero chance in hell that Kokichi Ouma squeaks. It doesn't happen. Such noises are unbecoming of a distinguished detective, even if it occurs in a bed within a love hotel. 

Post-definitely-not-squeak, Kokichi carefully peers out of the space between his hands. His hands, which absolutely did not fly upward once he was de-briefed. _Hah_. There's no evident repulsion; safe enough, so Kokichi guides his trembling arms back to his sides. 

In fact, Saihara's having the opposite reaction.

Saihara’s chest repeatedly quivers, inhaling and exhaling in a quick rhythm. “Wow... Ouma-kun's cunt really is small, even for his frame.” Somewhat uncertainly, he ghosts a fingertip across his folds. Every brush sends electric sparks throughout Kokichi's body. The static is a heavy, pleasurable contrast to his practically seeping cunt. 

“You're vulgar,” he laughs, a little breathless himself. His face is red-hot, for it burns an emotion betwixt shame and excitement. Saihara’s ‘sexy’ language is almost, almost humiliating, and the delivery was blunt. _But like I said, if it’s_ you _, Saihara-chan, it’s okay…_

_…right?_

Very slowly, Saihara's gaze drags itself away from Kokichi's innermost thighs. At first glance, Kokichi is delighted by how narrow Saihara's pupils have become. They're so dilated, thinning from the sexual pleasure of merely seeing Kokichi naked -

\- so he finds himself turning cold at the utter lack of emotion in those eyes. Unlike hunger; void of any feeling and vision unfocused.

The burning humiliation across his cheeks morphs into overwhelming frigidity. Icicles dig into his skin, and Kokichi can feel the steep edges sink down into his bones. Saihara doesn’t comment on his sudden pallor.

Laugh it off, laugh it off. Laughing is the nature of a liar. “Haha... uh, Saihara-kun?”

Kokichi’s voice doesn’t quite free him from his stupor. “I think I'm going to split you in half... yeah, you're definitely going to be the smallest person in the organization,” Saihara says. Clearly more to himself, more than the other warm body in the room. He's, panting, evidently a little delirious.

“Saihara-kun, you’re-” _you’re scaring me,_ he thinks, “you’re okay?” 

A flicker. They make unsteady eye contact, Kokichi's gaze wavering in response to the steely expression on Saihara's face. “More than. Ouma-kun truly is the best.” 

“Ahaha... so it's like that. Mm, Saihara-chan sure is strange.”

“Uh-huh. Here, let me just...”

In a single, swift motion, Saihara removes his pants. Albeit with an ample amount of kicking, his boring patterned boxers follow shortly. _Don't look at his dick_ , Kokichi demands of himself, _don't you do it;_ he straightens his back somewhat at the sight of it standing nearly fully erect. 

_Goddammit, Kokichi._

From his very limited experience, Kokichi can testify that it's a good dick due to lack of discoloration, no unusual size in either direction, he's uncircumcised, whatever else, what-have-you. Maybe most unusual is that Saihara-chan's hair upkeep isn't totally tidy, and he has a small but visible happy trail.

 _Painfully average, but what else should I expect from plain old Saihara-chan?_

Mmhm, though.

— Kokichi's intestines erupt, lacking warning. Once more, the room ignites, the smoking sensation returning tenfold. 

Why, exactly, takes a small eternity to process; Kokichi blinks the starburst in his eyes to register that Saihara has entered.

Bare. 

“Stop! H-hold on a sec!”

Thank whatever god there may be; Saihara withdraws instantly, pupils blown wide in a mixture of giddiness and shock. “What? What is it, Ouma-chan, what's wrong?” 

Rather lightheaded, Kokichi stares at Saihara blankly. “Haha...” Kokichi groans, doing his best to avoid the sight of Saihara's dick lined up against him. Lest he forget the change of honorific, too, but that's probably an intimacy gesture.

That abrupt enter & exit skit just then, that left a churning, low kindle fire within Kokichi - deeply, deeply painful - and his folds are aching at the intrusion at all. Nothing that won't be fixed with a more, _smooth_ transition inside, surely. Excitement can really get to someone's head, huh...

“Saihara-chan can't be so much of a virgin that he's unaware of condoms, right?”

“Oh. That? No, I didn't forget.”

Without waiting for a reply, Kokichi is quickly impaled again. It's not any easier the second time around.

“Wai- Saihara? _SAIHARA_?”

An unexpected divergence in the script, from Kokichi's perspective. This isn't something he accounted for. And, given that he's made no efforts to slow or recede, Saihara is decidedly disinterested in Kokichi's very, _very_ vocal expressions of discontent.

Mercifully, Saihara doesn't thrust in completely; the arching pain contends that the painfully average dick is more than enough to sear. 

“Saihara! Stop! Stop it, it hurts!”

A low grunt. Hope flutters, and dies, because the next thing Saihara says is, “Do you always- talk so much during sex?”

From the stomach-deep pain, Saihara must've rolled his hips further. Their waists unevenly clack against one another, a short-lived cacophony of foreign bones intermingling. 

Water - tears spring out of his eyes. “Nonono, Saihara-chan, stop, stop, I said stop!” 

Weakly, he raises his fist against Saihara. His shove merely worsens the situation, because while Saihara's chest bends backward to avoid the punch, his waist goes in the opposite direction. It feels so g _oo-oo_ d.

Simultaneously, it hurts so much.

“I'll get p- _pregnant_ , you can't, stop, please, Saihara's gotta stop-”

What do either of them look like, right now? In this particular instance. Kokichi mentally steps back, disconnects his body from the continuously exploding agony that is his busk of a body. 

Well, then. Likely due to Saihara's increasingly erratic movements, Kokichi is now flat on his back. The sheer force of this lewd intimacy may be why his legs are bent to such an angle; just as probable is that Saihara spread them himself.

A handful of times, the back of Kokichi's head smacks the board resting against the bed - and that's why his neck is sore and his brain is ringing, too - whereas Saihara maintains himself upright by keeping Kokichi pinned. 

If these things cross over into reality, there's going to be several scars in the daylight. 

Coldly analyzing the situation doesn't last forever. It's a diversion tactic of sorts, but Kokichi isn't anywhere close to that breaking point; Saihara's moans reel his attention back easily. 

“Ouma-chan, Ouma-chan,” he's sweating, making his hair stick close to his scalp. “Ouma-chan really - can't tell lies like this, can he?”

 _What do you want from me, what did I do? All of that build-up, and this is what you truly desire, Saihara?_ “Stop! Stop it, Saihara!”

“D-don't you get it? I won't stop,” he murmurs. Laughs. Screams, maybe, Kokichi can hardly decipher Saihara's words anymore. Not when his ears are thrumming with the uneven beat of his bloodstream. “Not until Ouma-chan pledges her loyalty to me, just like we agreed!”

That sentence stokes desperation. Could have been the misgendering, or revealing the primal cause for this fucking nonsense -

“ _No! No!_ No, I'm gonna get, I'm gonna b' pregnant, no...”

“Good,” Saihara murmurs.

What a joke. 

“S-Saihara-kun, Saihara-kun!”

Their chest press together. Somehow, this is when he realizes that Kokichi's very last shred of decency - the bra, from earlier, the one that could've ruined the fantasy from the start had the coloration in the room just been slightly different - remains steady. There's little interest in removing it from both parties.

Saihara pants, drool glistening bright, nearly falling out of his lips. “Promise me. Swear that you'll never leave me!”

“Saihara-kun, Saihara, Sssaihara, Shuichi!”

For one, split, miraculous second, Saihara’s hips falter. The breakneck pace momentarily shudders, and Saihara’s cock is still impaling him, yes, but the heat is manageable for that single instance alone.

So when the thrusting resumes, the blinding white pain nearly drowns out all of his senses. Kokichi, drifting outward to his own personal sea, almost misses Saihara’s voice in the cascade. 

“Kokichi! _Say it again_!” 

“W…wuh? ‘uchi?” 

Inaudible words.

Vaguely, Kokichi is aware that Saihara’s fully bottomed out within his cunt, that his cock is rocking his body in a back-and-forth limbo but can’t truly go any deeper. His body uselessly spasms, and Saihara’s mouth continuously opens. _What’s happening, why is he yelling?_

“’uchi…Ssaihara,” he finishes, tongue hanging out of his bitten lips and all.

“God!” What finally tethers Kokichi down to reality is a resounding slap to his cheek. It’s - wet, and that sensation is what causes Kokichi to notice that he’s been silently crying throughout sex. Saihara’s hand draws away; it lingers across the small pulse beating against Kokichi’s trachea. 

Small threat.

“Kokichi, I said, say it again, call out my name again!” 

“Saihara-” _wrong choice_ , he remembers too late. “Shu, puhlease,” are the last two words he recalls. Extraordinary force meets against his collarbones, and the visibly shaken Saihara fades back into the light.

He's... off kilter. He makes an attempt to sympathize this experience to something else. Anything else. Dissociation. 

What his mind reaches for is youth. Cartoons always depict unconsciousness as this black-and-white gag, with shooting stars streaming across the character's sight; for Kokichi, the colors of Hotel Kumasutra bleed away.

All of the hues, the orange wallpaper plaster; from Kokichi's sickly white-tinged-red hands, to the unreal shade of gray, then brown, then gold of Shuichi's eyes, trickle downward into a collection of grays. 

Desaturation. Internally, Kokichi's body responds in kind. Prior to blacking out, his temperature favors hot, hot, hot, because the blood that must be spilling out of his pained guts and his throbbing organs is practically giving off steam.

As Shuichi wrings Kokichi's neck, however, the heat stops in its tracks. The previous icicles return, carrying a frost with them that breathes within the confines of his nerves. 

Hot, cold, hot, cold. Puffs of air - are they because he's hot enough to boil, or cold enough to freeze? 

“I love you,” he hears. Typically, hearing is the last sense to go. 

_Who said it,_ he wonders, attempting to say it aloud. The unkind pressure is gone, but so is his tongue. 


End file.
